


Merry and Bright

by emjam



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barely a Hint of Angst, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Fluff, Friendship, Gift Giving, I Don't Know Either, I didn't know this would be this long lol, I would put javert's confused boner but it's more like javert's confused heart, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Or Is It?, Post-Seine, javert doesn't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13029807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emjam/pseuds/emjam
Summary: Valjean invites Javert to Christmas dinner at the Gillenormands'. Javert is uncomfortable about his feelings towards Valjean, and gifts are exchanged.





	Merry and Bright

“Why did you invite me to this, again? It’s so...” Javert hummed without a finishing word, idly rapping his knuckles against the massive oak table that could seat way more people than would fit in his own apartment. 

“Extravagant? Yes, I know, it’s not something we’re quite used to.” Valjean cast a glance towards the bundled sprigs of holly placed at regular intervals down the long stretch of wood. Swirls of golden-threaded fabric were tied to keep them in place, and glittering loose ends danced around the leaves. 

Javert followed his eye to the details on the table. That was the least of the decorations; an unreasonably large wreath resting its impressive weight on the front door came to his mind, bright ornaments weaved within, a frivolous sight that made him laugh out of mere shock. The blatant display of wealth also embarrassed Valjean some, he knew.

“It was either this or you spent Christmas alone in your apartment, and I couldn’t let you do that without at least offering a chance to socialize.”

“You act as if being alone is something to save me from. I assure you, I would have been perfectly fine at my apartment.”

“And yet you came.”

Javert turned his dark eyes into his glass. “Yes, well…” he took a polite sip, and then cast it back to the table with a rather impolite grimace. “You practically dragged me here.” The tone in the muttered words didn’t actually hold any ill will, and something inside him was annoyed that Valjean knew that, and that Javert could tell that he knew that by his wry smile.

How was Javert supposed to resist a very sincere plea from the man to join them on Christmas day, when they no doubt had a fine fire going, dulling the appeal of his bleak, drafty rooms, and honestly, the snowflakes gathering in Valjean’s hair while he extended the invitation on Javert’s doorstep might have softened him a little, surely a deliberate manipulation tactic with how well that worked.

Javert looked at him now, how the sparkling snow and flushed cheeks were no longer present but his face still opened up the same foreign feeling in his chest, and well, maybe it softened him a lot.

He checked his glass, but there was still nearly all of the wine left. So his thoughts were his own, then.

A dull clap echoed through the uselessly spacious dining room. Valjean’s hands had clasped together joyously as he turned to face someone. “Cosette!”

Javert looked up. It was indeed Valjean’s daughter, fashionable fabric swishing and dark ringlets curling daintily out from her precise hairdo.

“Papa!” She exclaimed, placed an appetizing dish down on the table, and embraced Valjean. “So you made it! And it looks like Javert made it, too.”

“Evidently,” Javert murmured.

“The main course is almost ready, and then it will be time to eat,” Cosette cheerfully announced, ignoring him.

“Cosette, you don’t have to help make the food. There are cooks here for a reason.”

“I know, but I actually like cooking. And goodness knows extra hands would only help the servants. While we wait, would you like to make some of the remaining decorations for the tree?”

“Of course,” Valjean smiled warmly, and then turned that bright smile to Javert, who very much felt like a man who stayed up all night and was shocked at the rising sun. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “I would appreciate if you joined us, but you do not have to if you do not want to.” 

The invitation loitered in Javert’s ears after Valjean followed Cosette out. He rapped his knuckles on the wood once more, looking down at the sloshing glass of wine he was turning with small movements of his wrist. The swirling liquid screamed of waste when he considered leaving it on the table for someone else to deal with. The silence left by the pair needled at him. He stood, faltered, considered what to do with his full glass, resisted the habit of putting it on some kitchen counter somewhere considering this was not his home, and finally settled on leaving it where he had sat after all. He swept out of the room grumbling, running his hands up and down his cold arms.

He entered the cosy room that housed the Christmas tree. Valjean and Cosette were crouched in the tree’s corner, making some finishing touches, though it was already a bit excessively adorned for Javert’s tastes. A grand fire heated the room from inside its ornate stone throne. Javert hugged the walls of the room and lurked for a moment behind the scene, posture rigid and authoritative. Eventually he surrendered and eased himself into the chair closest to the fireplace, careful to keep his pant legs out of the flames’ reach. Through diligent eyes, he watched as father and daughter tied ribbons into festive bows and adjusted the fruit on the tree. The idea of grabbing the old man’s scarred wrists and taking him to the police station was but a distant memory.

The room’s back windows let sunlight in and combined with the glow of the fire to create a subtly-lit and inviting atmosphere. The pops of the fire blended with the soft chatter of Valjean and Cosette as they discussed the tree.

“You know, there needn’t be so much fuss about decorations. Giving is the best part of Christmas.”

“You cannot tell me it isn’t enjoyable to make the ribbons look just so on the tree.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.”

Javert rested his head back on the chair, and his eyes slowly drifted shut.

An indeterminable amount of time passed before a dreamless, relaxed sleep was extinguished by someone softly calling his name.

“Javert.”

He opened his eyes. Looking down at him was Valjean, half-illuminated by the steady fire. Cosette was rearranging gifts under the tree behind him in a meticulous manner that Javert couldn’t quite understand.

A pruner’s hand thrust a singular undone red ribbon into his line of vision. “Would you like to tie the last one?” 

Feeling the particular grogginess of a midday nap, he didn’t speak, and brought his fingers up instead to trace the coarse material, tugging it out of Valjean’s grasp. It was only then that he realized his mistake, and could have kicked himself. “I have never done this before.”

Valjean didn’t seem to care about the confusion in Javert’s face. “Well, you can tie a bow, can’t you? Simply tie it on the tree.” Simply tie it on the tree, he says. Javert was seriously questioning at this point whether or not he could even place it on the branch.

They moved over to a rare vacant spot on the tree amongst the nuts and fruit and dried flowers. Cosette had gotten up and left, presumably to the dining room. Valjean handed Javert the ribbon, and he felt like he was being tested somehow. There was no instance in his lifetime in which he had decorated a Christmas tree, or really even celebrated the holiday. His superiors certainly didn’t mind his availability, though they questioned him about it a few times.

His fingers were clumsy, indelicate hands having trouble tying the ribbon properly around the green branch. The bow turned out lopsided, loops uneven and tails trailing in unequal measures. The teased material was looking a little well-handled. It drooped amongst the perfect bows tied by Valjean and his daughter.

Javert was about to undo the sad thing and try again, when Valjean _complimented_ his forlorn attempt. “Thank you, Javert. Now the tree is finished. Let us go eat, I’m sure the meal is done by now.” He patted Javert’s shoulder and exited to the dining room. Javert followed, face warm.

The large table was unnecessary, surely. Some servants sat there, and the Gillenormands, and the Pontmercys, and Javert and Valjean, but that was only so many people. They did not quite fill the whole space. The table was laden with tantalizing dishes that produced delectable aromas. A soup was served. Javert tasted it, and the richness was almost enough to knock him out of his chair.

Gillenormand was laughing obnoxiously at his seat at the head of the table, somehow already relaying a story about some encounter or other with his friends and a gaggle of unimpressed women. The aunt rubbed her temples. 

Other than that, the meal was rather uneventful, if a tad indulgent. Both Javert and Valjean would have refrained from the sweet desserts, except Cosette had made a plate of cookies and that necessitated that Valjean try it. He loved it, because of course he did; he would love the cookies if they came out charred and inedible. Without even asking, he pushed one onto Javert’s plate, almost bumping Javert’s new and equally as full wine glass in the process.

“Valjean!” Javert bewilderedly whispered. “I don’t want this.”

“Come on, try it.” 

Javert sighed and tasted the dessert just to get the table’s eyes away from him, which had mysteriously wandered over when Valjean forcibly escorted the cookie to his plate.

“It is… very good,” He hesitantly conceded. It wasn’t often he indulged in his sweet tooth, and this treat had enough sugar to satisfy it for the remainder of his lifetime.

“Isn’t it?” The joy in Valjean’s eyes over all this holiday business was incomparable. Or, maybe it was just the fact that he could spend it with his daughter. While Javert had attempted to get Valjean to see the absurdity of his self-isolation as best as possible, and succeeded in most regards, the notion clearly still lingered that interaction with his daughter and new family was at least a thing only for special occasions. He must have a word with him sometime about that.

When the piles of plates and woefully uneaten leftover food were cleared away, the group retired to the tree room, the servants disappearing to unknown parts of the house. Marius and Cosette were sickeningly in love, clasping hands on a sofa and positively wrapped up in each other. Valjean looked happy just to be in a neighboring armchair that was within distance of their radiance. Javert forced himself once again to sit, this time taking the twin chair bookending the other side of the sofa. The Gillenormands lounged in another duvant. 

“Let the young ones go first,” Gillenormand instructed self-importantly. “It is their first Christmas together, after all.”

“If you insist, then of course,” came Cosette’s polite response. An awkward moment passed before Marius also gave a stilted thanks without looking his grandfather in the eye.

The new couple was promptly assaulted with gifts. The aunt and Gillenormand combined had gotten jewelry for Cosette and a new waistcoat for Marius and baby clothes of all things, a not-so-subtle hint of what they expected on the horizon. “Just in case you need them,” Gillenormand cackled. Valjean shyly handed the couple his gift, a myriad of books he knew they both would enjoy. Javert felt very stupid then; he had no gifts for anyone but Valjean. He hadn’t expected to be invited to anything. Was he supposed to get something?

Cosette and Marius oohed and ahhed appropriately at the gifts, Cosette in particular pouring over the diverse volumes her father had gifted them. They gave many genuine thanks, even Marius managing something heartfelt towards his grandfather. 

These presents were set aside. “We have things for you all as well,” Cosette directed. She extricated her fingers from her husband’s to get up and search amongst the gifts for the ones she obtained, emerging with a variety of boxes, no doubt having gotten something for everyone.

“This first one is for my papa.”

“Oh, Cosette, you did not need -”

“Hush,” she silenced her father. “You know very well if I didn’t it would be a crime.” She placed the small parcel in her father’s lap, as his hands were still resting dumbly on his knees. It took him a moment to take the box in hand, undoing the pretty pastel lace that was very… _Cosette_. He put his hands inside and lifted up a well-chosen mixture of seed packets, including the seeds of both practicalities like tomatoes and some more impractical, but still beautiful, flowers.

“Cosette, thank you for this lovely gift. I have always wanted to plant these.” He held a packet of seeds for some type of purple flower that Javert did not recognize. “But… I can't grow all of these. My garden is too small, and too full.” He supposed a neighbor would appreciate a few of them.

“I know.” She had a mischievous glint in her eye. “I was thinking we could plant a few together in the garden here, and then you could visit to help take care of them.”

“Oh, I see what you are doing,” Valjean faintly chuckled. He was prepared to decline the veiled offer to visit more, but his daughter’s eyes implored him so. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Perhaps we can arrange to plant a few in the spring…” 

“Oh, thank you papa!” She wrapped her arms around him, and he hugged her back, expression lighting up. Cosette then distributed the rest of the couple’s gifts: a new cravat for Marius, a new brooch for Mme Gillenormand, and other gifts of the frivolous sort. Before Javert knew it, a thin package was dropped in his lap also. 

“Madame -”

“Shh. I didn’t spend time procuring these gifts for everyone to start refusing them, I mean really!’

Silenced, he only slightly fumbled with the paper around the gift, and withdrew from the encasing a fine pair of gloves, dark leather with a warm inner lining. He thought of his own ratty pair, repaired a thousand times over, stashed in the pocket of his greatcoat on a coat hanger near the door. Was their poor state really that obvious? Sliding them on, they fit perfectly, and he could only wonder how the woman had gotten his measurements right without ever approaching him. “Thank you, madame. I will make good use of these.”

Satisfied in her excellent gift-giving skills, Cosette nodded, and they moved on to the Gillenormands’ presents.

Once all the gifts were given, the good food and the warmth of the log still burning away in the hearth made everyone tired. After exchanging Christmas sentiments, the residents of the household found themselves saying goodbyes to Valjean and Javert at the door.

“Papa, it’s dreadfully cold out there, please stay for the night! Monsieur Javert can stay too, if he wants. We have a few guest rooms.”

“You are quite welcome here,” Marius added. 

“I will be fine. I would like to escort Javert back to his apartment.” Valjean shrugged his ugly yellow coat on - Javert had asked him once why he hadn’t replaced it with his considerable funds, and he said that he supposed it was just not in his nature - and opened the door into the chilled night. He gave profuse thanks for their hospitality and then left, Javert following like a shadow with his dark greatcoat and new black gloves.

They fell into step together some paces from the front door, a near perfect picture of the mayor and his inspector surveying the town, except this was the lively city of Paris instead of a sleepy town by the sea, and those titles were now lost on them both. Madeleine was Jean Valjean was a mere peasant-turned-philanthropist, and Javert was a pillar of the law now crumbled. He watched silently as Valjean pressed sympathetic coins into the shivering hands of the homeless along the way, no doubt wishing he could somehow deposit secure wellbeing into their pockets instead of just money.

Javert warred with himself as he was now wont to do. Maybe he would need them still. But they were so threadbare that one more fix would destroy them anyways, so he figured there was no use keeping them. It would be more reasonable to buy a new pair if necessary. Near-resigned, he pulled out his old pair of gloves and passed them to a grateful woman huddled beneath an awning, blue-tipped fingers grasping the thin material out of his outstretched hand. He didn’t miss the soft smile Valjean threw his way through the light dusting of snowflakes in the air as they approached the door to Javert’s building.

That reminded him.

Javert dug deeper into his vast pockets, looking for a rectangular box. It had seemed silly to give his gift to Valjean at the Gillenormands. It wasn’t his family, and he didn’t have something for anyone but Valjean. It would be rude to only hand _him_ a gift while in the presence of the others. He aborted the action, however, when he realized that it would be difficult to see with the setting sun. 

“Ah, I realize I did not give you your gift yet…” Valjean muttered. They stopped at the door and he went searching in the folds of his own coat.

“We might as well go up to my room for a moment to exchange gifts. There is more light there.”

Valjean also ceased his search and smiled. “Good idea.”

Javert shook an inexplicable tremor from his hand and opened the door, climbing the narrow, rickety stairs to his apartment, Valjean in tow. When they arrived, he immediately lit a lamp and a meager fire, feeling foolish for suggesting this in the first place. “My apologies, it’s always so damned cold in here.”

“No worries.”

Yes worries, Javert would say, if he were a child. I just suggested you go out of the cold and into more cold, he would protest. But since he was a reasonable adult, he said nothing.

“There it is.” Valjean had apparently resumed searching his odd menagerie of pockets - surely not all of them were there when he bought the coat, which would intrigue Javert more if he had any intention of arresting the criminal in his apartment - and extracted a package wrapped in paper. He held it out to Javert, who took it hesitantly into his hand, new leather brushing the paper, wondering what in the world Valjean could think to get him. 

The paper was unwrapped and placed in a slowly unfurling ball on his desk, the one he didn’t know what to do with, the one with scrolls of paper hidden in the drawers that he once used to write reports but now used for nothing except maybe grocery lists. He lifted the lid of the slim brown box. It housed a gleaming new razor, engraved decorative handle made of horn and studded with detail. “Valjean, this is…” Javert lifted it out of the box with unusual care and brought it closer to the light. The detailed handle encased a blade of silver steel.

“Do you like it?”

Was that a hint of nervousness in Valjean’s voice?

The gesture would seem exceedingly frivolous from anyone else. He shaved, yes, but he never felt that odd desire for his everyday appliances to be artful, merely serviceable. Somehow, though, this gift didn’t get under his skin in any way other than the fact that this must have cost Valjean a lot of coin, and he could see the imbalance of debt as clear as day. Rather, he was quite grateful for it. “Thank you,” Javert responded after a long moment. He just as gently closed the razor and lowered it back into its padded box. “This is very thoughtful of you.”

“I’m glad it suits you. I was worried for a moment that it would be excessive, but I saw it in a shop window and just could not imagine gifting a lesser design.” 

“Odd, considering your home is completely barren of fanciful displays of wealth," he teased.

“Well, I prefer it that way,” he laughed. “And evidently, so do you, but I thought you deserved a finely crafted present.”

Deserved. The word was warm; Javert’s previous acquaintance with it was indifferent at best. He was not entitled to much in life in his eyes. He had deserved to be fired in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and deserved the wrath of the Seine. Or at least he had thought he did. This was a much kinder form of deserving - deserving a thoughtful gift, an expression of friendship.

Hopefully he didn’t look once again like there was a star burning bright in his presence. The heat might melt the gift he had planned for him, a gift which now felt much too ordinary in comparison. Flustered, he dug a hand deep in the trenches of his own greatcoat and presented the wingless saint in his home with a rectangular black box tied with a simple green ribbon.

“I had the woman at the store do that,” Javert said uselessly, feeling a preemptive need to explain himself, answering a question that no one asked.

Amusement showed on Valjean’s features as he untied the ribbon and set it down on the table next to the wrinkled paper, soon joined by the lid of the long box. Two white candles, almost short enough to look awkward in the silver candlesticks on Valjean’s mantle at his home, were nestled around paper. They tapered at the top, curling lines carved down the sides to seem like the wax was perfectly twisted.

Javert had seen the way the candlesticks had been recently neglected. Not that he was constantly at Valjean’s, but a vigilant eye noticed the dried wax drippings carelessly staining the metal, and the mere stubs of candles sitting in the holders. They hadn’t been replaced for a while now, reaching that point and becoming stagnant. Whatever it was that distracted Valjean from his digilent upkeep of one of the few material possessions he so cherished - Javert hoped it was not depression returning from when Valjean had attempted to forcibly cut ties with his daughter - it didn’t feel correct to watch the wax dwindle.

Valjean stared at the candles with an inscrutable look on his face, one that Javert couldn’t decipher, and ran a finger along the ridged side of one. “These are beautiful.”

They were not, Javert knew. They were a simple white, and an awkward height for the candlesticks. There were much more impressive candles lining the walls of that shop, and these were the ones that fit his budget.

But Valjean loved them. He saw something in them, somehow. 

“Thank you so much, Javert.” A new light sparked in his eyes. “I did not realize I needed these.”

A small smile upturned Javert’s lips, and turned halfway between his terrifying tiger’s grin and the flat, inexpressive line that often painted his features. “Merry Christmas, Valjean.”

Valjean returned his uncertain smile with a blinding one, and Javert thought that it was what would truly kill him. 

“Merry Christmas, Javert.”


End file.
